can be mortal
by verybrave
Summary: [06 Dec 2010] spitting blood and purpose


They are like two ships passing.

When Gin meets Sanji, Sanji is already too old for his nineteen years, too eager to please, and too ready to sacrifice himself for a hunk of floating scrap metal and driftwood and someone else's secondhand dream.

He's a streamlined 5'9", sleek in his black tailored suit, the picture of class underneath the light of the chandelier in the dining hall, but once he passes from under that, it's like he morphs, slouching like a punk, stalking around like a hoodlum, with _conviction_, like if he exuded enough menace, and if he _meant_ it hard enough, the world would actually leave him the fuck alone.

His scowl, however, is not so much terrifying as it is sullen and really pissed-off, the kind that doesn't deter trouble but rather invites it over for tea that's steeped to perfection and scones that crumble just right on your tongue—and why wouldn't trouble stick around, when it can have such a good time.

But Sanji is probably the man people have in mind when they say that thing about sailors and swearing, because he has a mouth that can make even the most hardened of Krieg's pirates blush, which is impressive because Gin knows that's not an easy task by any stretch of the imagination.

And Sanji's mouth also doubles as an ashtray, it seems, because the kid smokes like nicotine pumps through his veins instead of blood, like he has to prove something with every inhalation.

He's a chef, and at first Gin thinks it a pansy sort of profession, but then his face is forcibly introduced to Sanji's foot, and he has to reevaluate his whole outlook on life.

Sanji is defiant and Sanji is delusional and—from what Gin can gather from the rest of the cooks—Sanji is a really annoying asshole who's got it coming to him.

And, Gin knows from experience, Sanji is kind. Sanji sits on deck in his horrendously expensive suit, never mind the unswabbed planks, the sea spray, the salt in the air thick enough to crust in his shampoo-ad-perfect hair, and he saves Gin's life and he grins like Gin's just made his fucking day, and when Sanji smiles, it seems too big for his face, but it looks right, and so sincere it has to hurt.

And Gin is grateful and Gin has never been so confused in his life.

And when Gin swings a weighted tonfa at Sanji's ribcage, Gin _knows_ it hurts because Sanji looks like he'd snap in half from much less than that, but Sanji gets up again, spitting blood and purpose, cigarette firmly in place, baffling, and then Gin doesn't know anymore.

And when Gin presses the gas mask to Sanji's face, Sanji fights him with a feral ferocity, fingers digging into Gin's wrists hard enough to bruise, legs flailing wildly in desperate juxtaposition to his earlier kicks, measured and smooth, when he was in control and ready to die. Now Gin is trying to save his life, and Sanji won't have it.

Sanji is defiant and Sanji is delusional and Sanji is an asshole and Sanji is _kind_, but Sanji is an idiot as well, because Sanji is the only one who can't understand _why_ even after all this time, why Zeff would give his dream and Gin his life, but Gin can understand, and Gin does not let go of the mask because Sanji, you—

And when Sanji yells Gin's name, it is muffled and distorted and angry, a tinge of panic and so much dread, and Gin can guess what he's thinking,_fuck fuck fuck you can't do this you can't not again this can't happen again_, and Gin can only apologize in his head, where Sanji cannot hear him.

And when Gin starts to cough up blood, he has a vague feeling that he is going to die now and, what's worse, that Sanji would never forgive him—that Sanji would never forgive himself, that his death would crumble everything Sanji's agonizingly tried to rebuild these past ten years, because he has a feeling that Sanji is destructive like that.

And when Gin's entire body convulses in Sanji's arms, and when he hears Sanji shout his name again, he feels bad, feels like a fucking asshole, because Sanji's already got enough misplaced guilt and remorse to drown in, even Gin can see that in the few hours they've known each other. It's what drives Sanji more than anything else, more than his own dream, these debts Sanji's shackled himself to, and Gin _hates_ that.

And then Gin realizes, when he kicks it, that will be the final link in the heavy chain Sanji's wound so tightly, so devotedly around himself, and Sanji would never leave this hunk of floating scrap metal and driftwood and someone else's secondhand dream, because the second Sanji steps off the Baratie, he'd sink, so much guilt tied around his ankles like an anchor.

And Gin knows, Sanji wouldn't hate him for any of it, wouldn't be able to hate him because he'd be dead and useless, and Sanji would sink fast, he would.

Well, Gin suddenly decides, well—if it comes down to that, Gin is going to be fucking immortal. At least for long enough to get out of sight, out of mind. Watch, he can do that much; he's grateful enough, and Sanji doesn't need the weight of Gin's life on his conscience, can't carry another burden so close.

So Gin picks himself up, gathers his crew and gathers Krieg, the straightness in his spine a lie he has to tell. "What an annoying restaurant," he says to Sanji, who will never have to know, and who grins at him now, proud.

The ship sails; they pass.


End file.
